


carry out the pictures

by self-indulgent-drivel (half_a_league)



Series: number seven, old ashe road [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Female Harry Potter, Outtakes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-16 18:26:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16500464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/half_a_league/pseuds/self-indulgent-drivel
Summary: bring onficlets and short stories





	1. Dora and Harriet-Flying Practice

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Kings of Leon's "Pyro". Source material belongs to J.K. Rowling. This work is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> These are all outtakes and behind-the-scenes from _bring on_ , my female!harry canon rewrite.

_“Don’t be scared,” Dora said, and set her on the broom, climbing on after her. They rose steadily._

_“The trick is to get some height,” Dora told her as the ground disappeared into the clouds. Her arm was warm and secure around Harriet’s waist._

_“Let the broom do the work for you. Falling is always faster than flying.”_

"I was thinkin bout asking for an expansion on the tonks teaching harriet to fly scene"--foxhatgirl

* * *

The rug in the parlor scratched against Harriet's cheek. She stared at the red and blue wool, crossing and uncrossing her eyes to make it look more interesting. Mumma and Daddy were arguing in the kitchen again, and it was the most miserable feeling in the world knowing they were arguing about _her_.

The front door creaked. Harriet rolled her head to the side and watched blurry silver shoes come towards her. “Why’re you under the sofa?” Dora asked in a whisper. “Are they fighting again?”

Harriet nodded and bit her lip really hard. She didn’t want to be a baby and cry in front of Dora. “I was bad,” she said as quiet as she could.

Dora snorted, like Mumma was always telling her not to, and dropped onto the floor next to Harriet. She turned to look at Harriet, and crossed her eyes like yesterday, when she’d been teaching Harriet how to do it.

“You can’t be bad,” she told her. “That’s like water not being wet, or Snape not being slimy.”

Something in the kitchen shattered. Dora was crawling under the sofa now; she was almost too big. Harriet squirmed into her, and tucked herself under Dora's arm, where everything was warm and smelled like bubblegum.

“I was bad in public,” she told Dora, and stared at the side of Dora’s shirt instead of the rug. It was silver and sparkly, like Dora's shoes.

Dora hummed, and it moved through Harriet's whole body. It made her feel slow and sleepy, like when Dora read to her after she had a bad dream. “Well,” Dora said in her teasing voice, “you can’t have not kept your face on, _you’ve_ only got the one. Did you put on the wrong arms and legs?”

Harriet giggled, and tucked herself in closer. “No-o, Dora. That’s silly.”

“Hmm,” Dora said. “Well, did you—pull down all the oranges at the grocery store?”

“That was you!”

“Hmm, did you knock over an old lady and get turned into a newt?”

Harriet tucked her face into Dora's side and shook her head.

“Harry?” Dora tickled her side, but Harriet didn’t want to laugh.

“—HAVE TO HIDE!” Daddy shouted, and Harriet shivered.

Dora was all tight and hard now, not soft and warm and giggly. She put her arm extra heavy around Harriet's shoulders, and said, “Did someone _see_ you?”

Harriet's nose hurt a lot, like when she was going to cry. She said, “I didn’t mean to.”

“—BE SO STUPID—” Mumma screamed. “YOU _KNOW_ SHE KNEW THE POTTERS!”

That was a bad word. They weren’t supposed to _say_ that word. Harriet felt two fat tears squeeze out of her eyes. The old lady had said that word, and now Mumma was saying it, and Daddy would have to put her timeout and it was all Harriet's fault.

Dora moved away, out of the space under the sofa, and Harriet clutched at her. “Don’t leave,” she begged. “Please, Dora. I’m sorry.”

“Come on,” Dora told her, and got up onto her knees. She grabbed Harriet's arm, not hard to make it hurt like Jessy-at-daycare’s sister did, Dora _never_ did that, even when Harriet couldn’t walk as fast as her. She tugged Harriet out too, even though she didn’t want to go. The fight was louder just from the floor, and Harriet wanted to put her hands over her ears, but Dora was holding on now, and pulling her.

“Where’re your glasses?” Dora asked, and tousled Harriet's hair.

“My room,” she whispered. The whole house was too big and loud when Mumma and Daddy were fighting. She liked the water-color world better when they told her to go play and went into the kitchen and shut the door.

Dora didn’t go up to Harriet's room though. She went down the hall to the big wooden door with the metal bars, the one Harriet wasn’t supposed to go past unless Mumma was with her. “No,” Harriet said, and tugged away when Dora opened it. “We’ll get in trouble.”

“Mum and Dad are in trouble,” Dora said. “Look, you just wait here, okay? You don’t have to go in.”

Harriet hugged herself, and nodded. “I’ll be right back,” Dora whispered, and pressed her face hard to Harriet's head. “Don’t move, and stay quiet, okay? Like a little mouse.”

And then she was going back down the hallway, blurring into the walls. Harriet tucked herself against the wall. There was no interesting rug to look at here, and the walls were white. She stared at her feet, instead. She was wearing her cat socks, brown and grey and tan, and she wiggled her toes.

Cats ate mice. She thought she was always supposed to be like the mice—Mumma and Daddy always wanted her to be small and quiet when they went to Diagon Alley and other places. But if Harriet was a mouse, that old lady was definitely a cat, but not a nice cat like the Colonel. She was a _mean_ cat, and Harriet had been so _stupid_ , asking Daddy if they could get ice cream while that nasty lady was talking to him, and now everything was awful.

Something scuffled. Dora was back, and she had Harriet's glasses, and her shoes, and Dora had her broom, too, tucked under her arm. Harriet knew how to tie her own shoelaces, she wasn’t a baby anymore, but Dora said, “Shh,” with her finger on her lips, and tied them herself.

And then she was putting her arm heavy around Harriet again, and before Harriet had time to say no, she didn’t want to get in trouble, Dora made her go through the big door.

This was Mumma’s room—not even Daddy came down here without Mumma saying he could. There were lots of big, interesting tables, and cauldrons as huge as the biggest stew pot, the one Mumma made mashed potatoes in during Christmas, and lots of books with no pictures. And they weren't allowed to play with any of them, only look with their eyes.

But Dora didn’t want any of these things. She took them back to the end of the room, where the big stone fireplace was. She put her broom down, and took her arm away and got the matches on the top of the fireplace.

Mumma always kept logs in there—Dora knew how to make the fire go.

“No,” Harriet said again. “No, we aren’t supposed to! Not without Mumma and Daddy! And there’ll be mean old ladies, and they’ll _see_ me!”

“Bugger them,” Dora said, and her face wasn’t her face anymore, it was a mean face. It had big dark eyes like holes in the ground and white skin, like a ghost and not a person, and lots of dark, messy hair. “We’re not staying here while they break everything in the kitchen again.”

Harriet put her hands over her eyes. Her chest hurt, and her nose, and she started to cry.

“Oh, Harry, no,” Dora said. Harriet didn’t want to look.

“I don’t like that face,” she cried. “Please, Dora, put it away.”

“It’s gone,” Dora said and out her arms around Harriet. “Look, it’s gone. I won’t ever make it again.”

Something upstairs made a loud noise. Harriet cried harder, and grabbed at Dora.

“Let’s not stay here,” Dora said, and rocked her. “Let’s go flying, c’mon. Mum and Dad are in timeout, we can go, we don’t even have to ask.” She pulled Harriet's hands away, and her face was her Dora face again. She made her hair bright green, like she was doing a secret wink, and wiped Harriet's nose with her sleeve where it dripped.

Harriet cuddled close. “There won’t be any old ladies?” she asked.

“No,” Dora said. “Absolutely not.”

“And I can fly on your broom?”

“Yes,” Dora said, really fast. “You’re too old for a baby broom. And _real_ flying’s brilliant, you’ll love it.”

“Mumma and Daddy are in timeout?” Harriet sniffled and clutched Dora's sleeve. “We can leave when they’re in timeout?”

“Every time they fight, they’re in timeout,” Dora said. “And I’ll take you away. If I’m not here, you can go to Granny’s house, okay?”

“Okay,” Harriet said. She loved Granny, and Granny _never_ went into the kitchen and shut the door and yelled a lot.

“Good,” Dora said. “Here, we’ll Floo together, okay? So you don’t get lost.”

“Okay,” Harriet said.

Dora could reach the big glass bowl on top of the fireplace. She grabbed a big handful of Floo powder, and threw it into the fire. “Hog’s Head Inn!” she cried, and the fire turned green.

“Here,” she told Harriet. “You hold my broom, yeah, like that, and I’ll hold onto you. Ready?”

Harriet screwed up her eyes really tightly, and nodded.

Dora held her hand really tight, and Harriet was hardly scared at all when they jumped into the fire. It crackled around them, warm and itchy in Harriet's nose, and then Dora was tugging them, and they fell out onto the floor.

It was really dark and dusty there. Harriet sneezed and looked around. There were loads of tables and chairs, and an old man with a long beard behind a counter. He was coming towards them with a broom—a sweeping one, not a flying one.

“Urghhh,” Dora groaned. “Harry, get off my stomach.” And then she froze.

Harriet stared at her. She was supposed to _never_ be Harriet in public. If the man heard— He was right there—

Dora pushed Harriet off, and scrambled up. “Sir,” she said to the man.

“Tonks,” he grunted, and started sweeping up all the ash from the fireplace.

Dora looked at Harriet, and grabbed her hand. She made her hair normal, really fast, and stood so close to Harriet their sides touched. “This is my sister,” she said after a moment, slowly, like she was scared too.

The old man was looking at Harriet—not at her face but right into her eyes. He said, “Well, girl?”

“Sorry?” Dora asked, in a high voice.

“What’s her name?”

Dora's shoulders got looser. “Asterope,” she said, really fast.

“And what’re the two of you doing here, disturbing my peace, in the middle of summer?” he demanded. "Have enough trouble with you during the school year."

“Just Flooing in, sir,” Dora said. “There’s nowhere to fly in Oxford.”

He grunted, and turned away, his broom gathering up a neat pile of ash. “Lucky you didn’t try The Three Broomsticks,” he said. “Castle staff’s there.”

“Right,” Dora said, slowly. “We’ll, we’ll just Floo out from here when we’re done, then.”

The old man said, “You do that.” And then he ignored them, like they weren’t even there anymore. Harriet felt a lot better that he did. She put her hand in Dora's, and Dora took her broom back, and they went towards the door.

Harriet looked back over her shoulder, and the old man wasn’t sweeping anymore. He was watching them, and Harriet smiled at him. He didn’t smile back—he looked so grumpy, like he _never_ smiled, but he nodded at her really slowly, almost like he was bowing.

And then they were outside, in the cloud-grey light, and Dora tugged her along the street. There were lots of interesting shops and things, and other kids, too, but Dora didn’t stop or slow down, and Harriet didn’t ask her to. She was too afraid that there would be another old lady.

And then there were no more shops, just funny crooked houses, and then there weren’t even those. Trees huddled around them, tall and dark and scary, and Harriet moved closer to Dora.

“It’s alright,” Dora said, not looking. “We’re almost there.”

And then the trees were gone, and there was a big, grassy field. It was huge, bigger than the play field at daycare, and all the grass was long, and tall, and moved a little with the wind.

“My friends and I found it,” Dora told Harriet, and cuddled her into her side. “I thought it would be a perfect place for your first flight.” When Harriet looked up, Dora's hair was green again, and messy like Harriet's. “Do you like it?” Dora asked.

“Yeah,” Harriet said. She was looking at Dora's broomstick, slung over her shoulder.

“No appreciation for nature,” Dora said in her teasing voice. “C’mon, Harry.”

Harriet paused, hand in Dora's still.

“It’s fine out here,” Dora told her. “There’s no one, just us.”

Harriet shook her head. “I’m not supposed to,” she said anxiously.

“Well,” Dora said, “I’m not teaching _Asterope_ to fly. She’s a little mouse, and mice don’t like flying.”

“I’m not a mouse!” Harriet said. "That's Mumma and Daddy's pretend game!"

“Well, what are you then?” Dora demanded, hands on her hips, grinning.

“I’m a— a hawk!” Harriet cried.

“Harry the hawk,” Dora said. “Harry Hawk. A proper wizarding name. I like it. And everyone knows, hawks love to fly.”

“And they eat mice,” Harriet told Dora. “Look, I’ve got big sharp teeth for mice eating.”

Dora laughed. “C’mere, little hawk,” she said. She took her broom, and put it in the air, where it hovered all by itself.

Harriet hopped anxiously from one foot to the other, away from the outstretched arm. “Alone?” she asked.

“No, I’m going with you,” Dora said. “We’ll share my broom—sharing things is good, remember?” Now her face was Mumma's face.

Harriet made a face and put her tongue out. Dora made a face back, her real face. And then she mounted on the broom, balancing on the tips of her toes, and grabbed Harriet under the arms.

Harriet squealed, but Dora was fast, and put her on the broom in front of her. “Don’t be scared,” she told Harriet, and put an arm around her. Her other hand reached out and grabbed the handle.

Into Harriet's ear, in a silly whisper, Dora asked, “D’you remember when Dad took us to the mountains to get a Christmas tree last year? You were so little.”

“I wasn’t!” Harriet cried.

“So you do remember?”

“Yeah, ‘course!”

Dora held her close, and slowly the broom started to rise. Harriet grabbed at the handle, and kicked her feet.

“Remember how he showed us the owls?” Dora asked. “How they went after all the little mice from above?”

“Yeah,” Harriet said, staring at the trees around the field in wonder. They were so tall!

“Hawks hunt like that, too,” Dora said. “They get up high, just like this.”

And they were going high! Past the trees, into the air, and Harriet shrieked excitedly. She could see the town! And there, there was something past the town, down below it. Something big and grey with lots of tall bits. “Is that Hogwarts?” she cried.

“Yeah,” Dora said. “That’s where I go to school, and Divination’s in _that_ Tower—” she stretched her arm out really far, pointing, and Harriet followed her finger to one of the high towers. “And that’s the clock tower, it’s so loud during the day! And the lake, and the groundskeeper’s hut, there. Nearly in the trees.”

Harriet stared. “It’s so pretty,” she said. “Do you like it there?”

“Loads,” Dora told her. “Ever since first year. The only thing it hasn’t got is you.” And then she tickled Harriet's side.

“Stoppit!” Harriet cried, and squirmed.

“Afraid you’ll fall?” Dora asked. “Look how well you balanced! Hawks don’t fall—didn’t you know they’re birds? Maybe you are a hawk, with a little bird brain.”

Harriet laughed. “But they fall,” she said. “Like the owls, when they hunt. You said!”

“They dive,” Dora told her. “It’s better than falling, so much faster. You want to try it? We’ll have to go higher.”

“I’m not scared,” Harriet said. “Dora, please!”

“Oh, alright,” Dora said. The broom started rising again, in slow loops around the field, and Harriet looked at the town, the mountains, the castle, the town—

“The trick is to get some height,” Dora told her. Now they were so high they were going into the clouds, wispy white around them. Harriet grabbed for one, and her hands got wet. She looked down, and the ground was disappearing into pale white light, blurring like when she took her glasses off.

“Think we’re high enough?” Dora asked.

“No!” Harriet cried. “Go higher, Dora!”

And then they were _above_ to clouds! Like in an aeroplane! Everything below them was grey, except where the clouds were patchy. Dora held Harriet tighter. “Now we’re high enough,” Dora said. “C’mon, little hawk, listen.”

Harriet leaned back and put her head against Dora's shoulder. There wasn’t any sound up there, just the grey below them, and the blue all around them, and the warm sun.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Dora said in her ear. “It’s a special secret—and it took me a long time to figure it out. Ready to hear it?”

“Yeah,” Harriet whispered back.

“You have to let the broom do the work for you,” Dora said, quiet like a hawk, her hair tickling Harriet's face. “Falling is always faster than flying.”

“Diving, Dora,” Harriet said. “Diving, like a hawk.”

“That’s right,” Dora said, and put her arm so tight around Harriet. “Diving!”

And then the broom was pointing right at the ground, and the wind was coming fast, fast, and Harriet was screaming, as loud as she could, because there wasn't room for all the good feeling inside her.


	2. Peregrine and Harriet: The Catch

“I'd like to see Peregrine Derrick's view of last chapter; I wonder what he thinks of Harriet, and what were his motivations last chapter!”—Nakiju

“ **Here’s Oliver signaling she’s all right, bet she’ll be feeling that tomorrow. Oh, and he still has time to block that weak shot by Flint, they’re swearing at each other now—** ”

Getting coshed over the head before the match hadn’t done Bletchley any bloody favors, Perry thought. While Wood and Marcus were screaming at each other, he got himself close enough to shout, “Uncross your bloody eyes!”

“I’m tryin’!” Bletchley cried. “Fuckin’ hell, Cassie hit me good!”

“ **Madame Hooch is making them move on, Katie takes the ball—** ”

Marcus whistled and Perry tore himself away, sliding back into place next to Pucey. There were another exhausting ten minutes of play. He tore his bloody nails on the Quaffle and was sticking them in his mouth when Jordan’s obnoxious voice registered.

“ **Is that—** ”

He whipped his head around, saw Pucey letting the Quaffle drop—fuck. There wasn’t any bloody time to catch it, at least if the fucking match ended he could do something about his hands. If he’d just been born a bloody squib, he’d never have to regrown his fucking nail beds.

One of the Weasleys got Higgs. There went their bloody chance. Was the little girl—?

Fucking Marcus—bloody fucking hell, always wanting to play it out.

“ **A disgusting bit of cheating, better watch out later, Flint! Those Gryffindor lions look ready to eat you alive!** ”

Perry winced. That poor little chit was spinning away with a shriek that made him wince. First years weren’t supposed to bloody play Quidditch. It was like putting a kitten in with Crups. Bloody fucking hell they were draining the bottom of the barrel putting her on a broom.

He kept an eye on her so he wouldn’t have to watch Bletchley murder another bloody catch. She was up high now, a little speck of nothing against the sky.

“Derrick!” Marcus roared. He jerked his eyes away. Warrington wasn’t stupid. She was out of Bludger range anyway.

More play time. Perry sank a shot against Wood, slammed into one of the Chasers—the big one Jordan was in love with, and fouled her up. There was screaming from the stands. He rolled to avoid a Weasley Special. How the hell did they get a _spin_ on it like that —

Gryffindor was in possession again. Marcus whistled and they retreated. “Fucking Bletchley,” Pucey bitched. Perry grunted.

Higgs was spinning past as they ranged around their goal. “No fucking sign,” he panted at Marcus. “And I can’t get that little whore to follow me, either. She’s up high, dug in.”

“Fucking hell,” Marcus snarled, and spit. “Derrick, go get the fucking Quaffle, I need time to think.”

Perry saluted, and rose. The big Chaser was trying to come in from below. It was like pulling an orange off a bloody tree. He took the Quaffle, checked above him for the fast little Chaser who liked to divebomb—

“ **Angelina passes to Alicia, Derrick’s stolen the pass, who gave that nasty snake a pair of hands—** ”

No bloody way.

The Seeker chit was up there, all right. Should have been snug as a nested eagle that high, but was getting cursed off her bloody broom instead.

And of course no one saw. Seekers were only good when they had the bloody Snitch.

The Quaffle was an excuse now. Perry tucked it under his arm and dove at Wood. “Keep a better bloody eye on your players!” he snarled, and sunk the goal.

Wood stared.

“Your fucking Seeker!” Perry howled. Un-be-fucking-lievable.

Now Wood was looking. “Shitfuck,” he said, and swung his arms at Jordan.

“ **Wait, Oliver’s signaling, WHAT, OLIVER? Look up, look—There appears to be something wrong with Harriet's broom, she’s spinning around—** ”

Perry swung away, and checked the stands. Then he pulled up, high, passed the Weasley shooting towards the bloody girl, and checked the grounds. No one! Fucking no one! Bloody fucking Villains were supposed to be dramatic, supposed to be fucking obvious!

The professors were all bloody fucking useless. Like Reservii was going to do any fucking good! Hogwarts: A Fucking History was available for fucking free! The first fucking shelf in the fucking library!

The Weasley was reached towards her. Cold sweat was running down Perry’s back. The broom bucked itself completely vertical. How long could a tiny little thing hold on when it did that? Two times? Three?

There were other players circling below. Too far down, wouldn’t get a second fucking chance if they missed. He started a steep climb, put himself under her, as close as he could get.

The broom flipped. She was falling—

Perry thought he’d hear that scream for the rest of his fucking life. It gave him cold sweats.

He dove after her, reaching, trying to match her speed. Something hit her face. The scream stopped. If it was a curse to finish the job, he’d kill the bastard that cast it with his bare fucking hands.

They were the same speed. Now!

Fucking—

Her arm gave, dangerous, he’d been bloody fucking stupid. Slow now, and slower. She was writhing, face going fucking blue. The broom whined, a buzz in his ears. And bloody finally.

She hit the ground, and he launched himself off his broom. Choking Curse? She tried to cough.

“ **PEREGRINE DERRICK HAS LIVED UP TO HIS NAME, DID YOU SEE THAT BLOODY CATCH—** ”

The Muggle way, then. He pulled her onto her knees. Hurt like a bitch with the arm. He needed both hands. No time to brace her.

It only needed one blow. Whatever was in her throat came right up into his hand.

She was breathing. He grabbed her by the back of the neck, kept her upright. Didn’t even look at his hand until someone said it.

“ _The Snitch._ ”

He clenched his hand on reflex. Something moved against his palm.

“ **IN THE FACE OF CERTAIN DEATH, HARRIET TONKS HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH! GRYFFINDOR WINS—250 TO 75!** ”

The girl made a little mewling noise. Wheezed it. Perry shoved the Snitch into his pocket. “Bloody fucking unbelievable,” he told her. Grabbed her shoulder and arm, one in each hand.

Enormous eyes looked at him. He flinched. Hadn’t expected it—the grey. Everyone said—green like her mum’s. Hadn’t bothered to see for himself. Had stayed away from her like Da had told him to.

It could wait. “Take a deep breath,” he told her.

She sucked in. Another wheeze.

He put her arm back in the socket.

The scream before had been bad. This one. He’d dream about this one. Wake up sweating, hearing it.

She was out. He got her weight, got up on one knee.

Perry hadn’t expected Madame Fucking Pomfrey. She dropped next to him, turned her glare from the girl to him. “What did you _do_?” she hissed. Worse than a fucking cobra.

He could barely hear her over the shouting. People were starting to press in. Be a bitch to work his way through them. “Put her arm back in,” he said.

Her face got redder. “You could have given her nerve damage!” Pomfrey shrieked, and cast a flickering round of spells on the girl. “Completely senseless, trying to reduce her arm like that!”

“Detention, Derrick! For a week! With me!”

The spells slowed. Perry couldn’t half read them, but Pomfrey stopped yelling in his ear. She popped a litter into existence.

The girl was waking up again. She clutched at him, her eyes nearly crossed.

“Help me get her on the stretcher!” Pomfrey said. “Minerva, get them _back_!”

Perry picked the girl up. Just put her on that litter and watch her float away? When someone was trying to _kill_ her?

“I don’t bloody think so, ma’am,” he said. The girl pressed her cheek to his shoulder. She didn’t weigh anything at all. Must have bloody bird bones.

Those eyes were looking at him. Made the back of his neck crawl. They were supposed to be _green_ , like the light had been.

“Pass out already, would you?” he told her. She seemed stunned. “Just take a nice, long nap. Bloody well hate crowds, and you’re my ticket out of here.”

Slowly, she closed her eyes and turned her head closer. Out again. He started walking. Pomfrey was howling after him but McGonagall was clearing a way.

The bloody walk to the Hospital Wing had never been longer. She kept making little wheezing noises. He wanted to get a hand on her neck, check her pulse. Couldn’t reach without dropping her.

Pomfrey had finally caught up. She ran past him and held open the door, then locked it once he was through. “Only professors,” she told it firmly.

“Here, Derrick, on this bed.” She was closing all the window blinds around it. Blocking out lines of sight.

Perry put the girl down, and straightened her out carefully. She seemed smaller now. Tiny, in the middle of the bed. Did anyone ever bloody feed her? He took off her boots, and set them to the side.

“We’ll let her sleep for half an hour,” Pomfrey said. She was laying out potion bottles on the side table. “I can’t evaluate her this close to the trauma. It’ll skew the results on her pain.”

Perry sat down, heavily, onto the chair next to the bed. Trauma, that. Falling off her broom and nearly fucking dying.

“If you need to leave—” Pomfrey said. Soft, too. Like she wasn’t an absolute fucking harpy.

“No,” he managed. The girl’s chest was rising, falling.

The doors slammed open. Perry was on his feet, his wand in his hand—

“Put it away,” Professor Snape said.

His hand did it before his brain caught up. “Sorry, sir,” he said.

“I will excuse it this once,” Professor Snape said. “It was a good show of instinct. Pomfrey, her injuries?”

“Minor,” Pomfrey said. “Derrick’s mitigated the worst of it. I’m letting her sleep for half an hour. If she doesn’t wake by then, I’ll wake her myself to perform an examination.”

“Give her something mild for muscle pain. We still have not been granted access to her previous medical records.”

“I’ve got Poppley solution. Forty percent mix?”

“Adequate,” Professor Snape said. “I will inform Professor McGonagall. Mister Derrick, if you will accompany me, please?”

“No, sir,” Perry said. “Someone just bloody tried to kill her. I’m not leaving.”

Professor Snape looked at him. He wouldn’t try Legilimency, Perry knew. Didn't matter. He was just as good at reading your face.

“I caught her, sir,” he said. “I wouldn’t, I won’t do anything to her. She’s just a bloody little girl.”

“I did not suspect you would, Peregrine.”

Perry wanted to believe that. Didn’t bloody let himself. “It’s not right, someone trying to kill a little girl. It ain’t on.”

“Not even the daughter of your mother’s killer?”

The Hospital Wing was really small. Perry thought that if he cursed Professor Snape, he wouldn’t be able to run to cover in time. “I’m not my mother, sir. And she ain’t hers.”

Professor Snape’s face spasmed. He turned away, and said, “No. Neither of your parents could fly half as well as the two of you. You have comported yourself well.”

“Wasn’t going to let a bloody little girl die,” Perry said. “Sir.”

“Madame Pomfrey,” Professor Snape said. “Please let Mister Derrick stay as long as he wishes. Mister Derrick, I will collect your statement later tonight.”

He went out, the doors slamming closed behind him. Perry looked at the girl. She had her good arm up, her hand tucked under her cheek. The wheezing was quieter now.

“Bloody fucking hell,” he told her, and sat down again. "You sure know how to get people into a fucking mess."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i super love my trash son. he's the best. 
> 
> if you're trying to picture him, just imagine someone who at fourteen, puberty hit like a fucking truck. he's over six feet tall and has to shave twice a day, the poor kid. him carrying harriet--the shortest kid in her year--is a pretty comical sight.


	3. Severus and Minerva: A Christmas Conversation

**Takes place at the end of Chapter Eight, Bring On**

It had been uncanny—the resemblance. If he could forget the darker skin, the scar, and those ridiculous donkey ears, she had been the splitting image. The thought that she had Lily’s eyes, that ungrateful little chit—

He flexed his bleeding hand around his glass. Between the girl and Quirrell, he was in a foul mood.

He was lighting another cigarette when Minerva came banging into his private rooms. She went straight to the bottle on the hearth and poured.

“All the Weasleys have Charmed the non-Weasleys in my House into having red hair,” she said with a sniff. “I shall need fortification before I go to dinner.”

Severus considered the mess of his hand. “I saw,” he said flatly.

Minerva paused. “Saw them all?” she asked, “Or one in particular?”

“I have no desire to discuss this.”

“Well, I suppose it is Christmas. I’ll be charitable and leave it with a single remark.” She sank down into a chair without so much as a by-your-leave and kicked her feet up onto his coffee table. “I thought I saw a ghost when I came into the Hall.”

“Children often look like their parents.”

“I saw her when she was a babe in arms, you know. At her Christening. She was the splitting image of her father.”

“You said _one_ remark.”

“Forgive me for wanting to discuss this with someone level-headed. Filius can hardly bring it up sober and Hagrid sobs at the mere mention.”

“And I would rather not discuss it at all. Potter sees no value in her true parents. Why should we ascribe their traits and talents to her after she has so glaringly thrown them away?”

Minerva snorted. “Surely you’re still not touting that party line? She wasn’t even two when the Tonks family took her. What was she supposed to do? Crawl away back to her Aunt and Uncle’s house?”

“Then you are going to force me to discuss this,” Severus said. “Very well. Do attempt not to crucify me for my opinions, which you have _asked_ for.”

“I’ll endeavor to hide the nails away, should I get the urge. Go on.”

“Miss Potter has been raised with no respect or reverence for her deceased parents. She has been brainwashed into thinking her kidnappers are good and valiant people. She has repeatedly cast aside any sign of her true heritage—that ridiculous cover-up she used, the Charming of her eyes, refusing to answer to her family name. And while I am glad to see that James Potter’s legacy will not live on, I will admit to a certain amount of distress at how callously she throws away the sacrifices that were made for her. It is a very…Black behavior.”

“That, I can hardly understand,” Minerva said. “Andromeda Black was the best of her sisters. She has clearly managed to escape her upbringing, and raised a fine Hufflepuff daughter at that.”

“One can escape their upbringing,” Severus said. “But one cannot escape _genetics_. No child came out of that House unscathed by madness.”

“Narcissa Malfoy—”

“Oh, never doubt that she is mad in her own and peculiar way. As for the others, need I remind you of the previous banner for normalcy?”

“Sirius Black was an aberration,” Minerva said fiercely. “None of us could have known—”

“And none of us _do_ know what has gone on in Potter’s house. I am certain,” he said and set aside his glass furiously. “Certain, Minerva. Andromeda Black will oust herself when they begin interviewing her supposed daughter. Already we can see the cracks. The troll, the child’s reaction to her fall. The nonchalance she exhibited does not speak to a safe childhood. The child is too poor at subterfuge to be able to hide it for long. As it stands, Albus has agreed to allow me access to the interviews.”

“Her Head of House is supposed to be with her.”

“You don’t know what signs to look for, even you must agree to that. How many cases do you bring to the Headmaster each year? One or two, and some years none at all. I have a keener eye for this, and no doubt it will be needed.”

“You cannot think—”

“She will be damaged, much in the same way all the previous Black children have been damaged.”

“The other daughter, Nymphadora—”

“A troublemaker with a disturbing tendency to fly below the radar until she blew up something in your face. Lauded in her House. A trendsetter. Hufflepuff is not as pure as you think. I have no doubt that if we interview Pomona, there will be incidents when she went too far and showed no remorse doing so. Oh yes, she certainly reminded me of _one_ of her relatives.”

“Pomona has never said anything about the girl.”

“You are well aware of the nature of cetes. They deal with their own problems in their own time.”

“I think you are taking your prejudices too far,” Minerva said, leaning forward, her eyes sparking. “You’ve scarcely interacted with the girl. She is well-adjusted, polite, does well in her classes. She has friends, which I never knew the daughters Black to have in all their years here.”

“Minions,” Severus said. “Sycophants. The Black daughters were adored in House, and had rather a court of impressionable young things looking up to them. I will admit, Potter’s choices are eclectic, but no doubt she was instructed to start gathering early. And the male Blacks were never alone, were they? No, Minerva. My prejudices do not blind me, and your bias rather does.”

“There is nothing there, Severus! You need only to speak to the girl once, _once_ , and see that she is just as she should be. A happy, healthy child.”

“And when I prove you wrong, you will eat those words. May they taste bitter, indeed.”

There was a crack. A House Elf, bowed so low its nose touched the ground, whispered, “The feast is being served, Master and Mistress.”

“Very well,” Severus said. “You are dismissed.”

Minerva set her glass down. “Once more unto the breach,” she said. “You argued so passionately, Severus. I’ll admit to seeing some of your concerns. I doubt a single interview would be amiss, just to reassure ourselves. But I must say, for someone who professes to hate the girl, you seem very concerned for her well-being. Do you see her as the victim here, then?”

“Both a victim and a perpetrator,” Severus said. “But with early intervention, perhaps she can still be salvaged. She has a role to play, after all.”

“You’re spending too much time with Albus. I can always tell—you start talking about people like they’re chess pieces.”

“We all have roles to play,” Severus said. “The is more than one reason that that we must follow them.”

They returned their glasses to the mantel. He allowed Minerva to precede him out of the room, and lingered to look at the single picture frame. Lily grinned back at him, and waved.

Severus touched the frame, and left without a word. There was nothing to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just gonna throw this snapshot out here--it'll give context for a part of chapter nine of _bring on_
> 
> snape's an awful, creepy guy, but he'd probably be better if he dealt with his issues and got some help. and hey, at least he's interesting to write.


	4. Millicent and Hermione: The First Meeting

“—worried about the barley. It’s not coming up like it should, and he thinks the gnomes have been at it again. I just wanted to know, you been having trouble, too?”

“Da says they’ve had bigger litters this year than the last,” Milly said and frowned at her plate. “We lost a couple of lambs to them in the spring, and he figures that’s been why.”

Mashed potatoes for lunch. Who serves mashed potatoes for lunch? They were strictly a dinner food, otherwise you’d be feeling like a boulder and falling asleep ten minutes after you left the table. Milly prodded at her pile of them and made a face.

“—told him Potions was on a different day that usual. He ought to straighten our schedules—”

“Shouldn’t play with your food,” Vincent said. He flicked a pea at her, and it bounced off Milly’s forehead onto her plate.

“Think you wouldn’t be so quick to give away your brain,” she said back, and ate the pea. “But, what’s the point of keeping something you don’t know how to use?”

Vincent blinked at her slowly, and loaded his spoon up with gravy. Milly grinned widely.

“—wanted red on my dress, but Mummy says I’m getting too old to wear that color, and anyways, the Gryffindors—”

“Oi!” one of the prefects said, leaning around Pansy. “You lot mind your manners.”

Draco, sneering slightly, did he know that made him look lopsided, leaned around Gregory. “Don’t be so common, Vincent,” he said loftily. “Gentlemen use their best manners at all times.”

Prats butt into conversations they aren’t wanted in at all times, Milly thought. Something at the Gryffindor table attracted her attention. She shoveled up a final bite of lunch, and leaned over to hiss at Vincent, “Look, Vince, let’s get out of here and go have some fun. Everybody here is cracked.”

Vincent looked down the table, where Draco, Greg, and Theo now were discussing brooms, then at the other side, where Pansy, Daphne, and Tracey were gossiping about what they could embroidery on their uniforms. Blaise Zabini, spooning peas into his mouth, stared dreamily into space.

“Yeah, alright,” Vincent said. They stood up and scrounged for their things.

“Where are you going?” another prefect demanded.

“The library,” Milly said. “We ain’t hungry.”

The prefect sighed. “And I suppose you need a guide,” he said.

“Nope,” Milly told him, and hitched her bag up her shoulder. The girl from the Potions corridor, the one who was always talking, had stood up and was making her way out of the Great Hall. “Already got one.”

The library was enormous, clean like a hospital room, and boring. They got shushed by a dour-faced woman standing behind the check-out desk just stepping in the doors. Milly stuck her tongue out and Vincent let the door shut with a slam and grinned when the lady winced. “Sorry,” they whispered loudly.

“Doesn’t look much like fun.” Vincent picked up a book, which snarled, and hastily let it fall back onto the shelf.

“Come on,” Milly said, and tugged at the strap of his bag. He obligingly steered himself after her and down several rows, which Milly checked with quick twitches of her head. “There’s a girl I want you to meet. She’s funny. We ought to be friends with her.”

“Aw, Milly, no more girls. They’re awful.”

“Not this one. She’s a hoot.”

The chatterbox girl was standing in the astronomy section, looking around. She already had a bunch of books piles up in her arms, and Milly snuck up behind her and stole the first one off the stack.

“Star Magicks, The Powers of the Night Sky Revealed,” she read off the cover. The girl jumped and shrieked. “Nice choice. ‘Scuse me, you’re a Muggleborn, right?”

The girl turned her nose up higher than Pansy could ever manage. “Yes, I am,” she said fiercely. “May I have that _back_ , please?”

“Sure,” Milly said, and dropped it onto her stack. The girl staggered. The lady from the front counter stuck her head around the row and said, “Shh!”

“Look, I’m Millicent Bulstrode, and this is Vincent Crabbe.”

The girl looked at them both. “I, well, Hermione Granger. Pleasure, I suppose.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Milly said. “Hey, you seem like you know a lot about planets and stuff, right? And probably everything else. I mean, you sure seemed like you knew about Potions in class today.”

“Oh,” Granger said. Milly thought that if she wasn’t so dark, she’d be blushing. “I read the textbook, that’s all. And the questions really weren’t that difficult.”

“Right, questions! Listen, I’ve got a question for you—none of the other Muggleborns will answer it and my friend and I need to know. All the older Slytherins were talking about it at breakfast.” She elbowed Vincent, and he said, “Yeah.”

Granger perked right up. She really was a hoot, Milly thought. There was no way she wouldn’t want to be friends after this—Milly had been thinking it up for all of Potions. “Go on then. You can ask.”

“Is it true Muggles really think they landed on the moon?” she whispered, and looked around like she was scared someone might hear.

“ _Think_ they landed on the moon?” Granger bristled. She crossed her arms and scowled cutely. “There’s no ‘ _think_ ’ about it. We really did!”

“Told you they were cracked, Vincent.” Milly said, and covered her mouth so she wouldn’t cackle. Vincent looked confused. He’d get it in a minute, Milly thought. The three of them could have a laugh, and then they’d all be friends.

“Excuse me!” Granger said, and whirled around like she was going to flounce away. She was a great actress. Just the right kind of friend to have. Milly shuffled impatiently, the punchline right behind her teeth.

“C’mon Granger,” she said coaxingly. “I thought you read the textbooks ‘fore you came here. Every witch and wizard knows the moon isn’t _real_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor millicent's a bit of an acquired taste. most chaos gods are
> 
> up next: sally-anne and millicent! <333333333

**Author's Note:**

> you can request scenes in the comments here, or as an ask on tumblr-i've got anonymous questions enabled!
> 
> I'm available [here](http://half-a-league.tumblr.com/) at my tumblr. or at my [ magic world aesthetics blog](http://spindle-and-distaff.tumblr.com/)


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